


DA Prompt Fills

by rehaniah



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:53:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4080337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rehaniah/pseuds/rehaniah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A place to store my DA Prompt Fills which, for one reason or another, I don't wish to post seperately (usually because I'm unhappy with the way I've written them!).</p>
<p>~Please read summaries below for specifics~ </p>
<p>Chapters 1 and 2:-  When Solas breaks up with the Inquisitor, he doesn't realise quite how much of a mistake he's making... Pairings: Solas/F!Lavellan briefly in the beginning, but mostly Cullen/F!Lavellan. Rating: Mature</p>
<p>Chapter 3:- DARK FIC featuring rape/non-con, manipulation and other horrible-ness: Evil Iron Bull takes advantage of F!Lavellan in the worst way possible. Rating: Explicit.</p>
<p>Chapter 4:- Fluffy fic! The Hissing Wastes are a very cold place at night, as Inquisitor Trevelyan learns to her cost. Thankfully, Bull notices her predicament and decides to help.  Rating: Teen</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Mistakes We Make - Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for this prompt: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/14591.html?thread=55590911#t55590911 which asked for Solas breaking up with F!Inquisitor, which has the effect of sending her into the arms of Cullen, and then regretting his action. 
> 
> This is extremely unedited so please ignore and/or point out mistakes as you see fit ;)
> 
>  
> 
> Part one of two. (Part Two will contain the mature content)
> 
> ~~~

He knows he’s doing the right thing. He knows that ending it is for the best – for both of them.

 

…But damn it all to the void if it didn’t hurt like a dagger to the heart. The way she was looking at him now; those soft brown eyes glistening with barely restrained tears, the delicate lines of her face now etched with shock, confusion, sadness…

 

A part of him would prefer her to simply be angry. At least that would be easier to deal with than the way she looked now; like her whole world had just been torn out from under her.

 

_And he was the reason for it._

  
“I… I don’t understand,” she stammers, weakly shaking her head at him, as if desperately hoping that he was playing some kind of cruel trick on her.

 

But this wasn’t a trick and this wasn’t a game and he should never have allowed it to go this far…

 

“I’m sorry, vhenan,” is all he can say. It’s not nearly enough, he knows, but what other option does he have? Tell her the truth? The truth of what he was – of _who_ he was?

 

No. Despite the briefest flare of jaded hope that still whispered to him that maybe she’d understand, maybe she’d still accept him, he knew he couldn’t do that. There was too much at stake.

 

There was the entire _world_ at stake…

 

She doesn’t allow him to see her cry, doesn’t allow him to see the tears fall. Despite the frail appearance of her small stature, she had to be one of the strongest people he’d ever met – and, given the life he’d led, that was saying something.

 

She was extraordinary. And kind. And beautiful… And here he was, turning it all away.

 

Unconsciously he reaches out to her as she goes to leave. He wants desperately to say something to lessen the hurt, to ease the ache, but she doesn’t even give him the chance. She doesn’t even look at him as she shrugs off his hand and hurries away, out of the moonlit glade and into the night beyond…

 

…

 

The weeks that follow are strained between them. She doesn’t avoid him as such; she still asks for his company on the missions where his knowledge or magical skills would be an asset. She still consults him if any unusual reports come through regarding ancient ruins or discovered artefacts. Occasionally she even requests his presence at the war table simply to have his input. Yet she maintains a strictly professional air at all times. So much so that it bordered on cold. If he tried to broach any subject other than one that related directly to the Inquisition, she would shut him down, or give terse, monosyllabic answers before excusing herself from his presence.

 

Despite all this though, the thing that actually affected him most of all… was the fact that she no longer smiled in his presence. Instead, her face remained as composed as a marble sculpture; as beautiful and delicate as before, but now distant, closed off from the world.

 

Indeed, it eventually became clear that he wasn’t the only one to have noticed it. Whilst he knew from the way the other members had descended on him to pry and prod about what had actually happened between the two of them (since it had been clear from the morning after that night in the glade that something had), no one seemed to have any real idea that it was him who’d broken it off. Nor what he’d claimed for his reasons… It appeared that Ellana had not spoken in length about the break-up to anyone. A fact which Solas found himself glad for, even though it meant that he had to deal with an ‘inquisition’ of his own; with everyone from Cassandra’s stern demand as to just what had gone on and whether it would affect the Inquisition, to the lowliest gossip-monger from the kitchens needling him with no-so-subtle enquiries when his meal had been brought to his study. He hadn’t given anyone the details, hadn’t wanted to. All he’d done was explain that it was over, that it hadn’t worked out and that it was best for all concerned if they simply focused on the task at hand.

 

Whilst he had to deal with some dark looks for a while from those who’d discerned, or made the –correct– assumption that he had been the one to end the relationship, in time the whispers and the gossip had gradually settled down.

 

Yet, even after several months had passed, there still remained something missing: No one claimed to have witnessed her smile return...

 

She took to spending long periods of time in the war room by herself, Josephine reported. And when she wasn’t there, she would be locked away in her quarters. If anyone went to see her, they never stayed long. Oh, she wasn’t rude, they reported. But she clearly didn’t want company either…

 

And then the day came when word reached his ears that she’d taken to spending some time with, oddly enough, Commander Cullen. It was recounted through the grapevine that he had taken to joining her in the war room – but unlike the others who’d tried such a tactic, hadn’t been dismissed or instructed to leave to deal with other matters (other matters that involved not being in her company).

 

At first, Solas hadn’t taken too much notice of the hearsay, reasoning that perhaps the Commander simply had specific business that required the Inquisitor’s input.

 

It was when the rumours began to imply that the Commander and the Inquisitor were spending time together outside of the war room that he began to take a bit more notice.

 

And then when he overheard two servants giggling about how the pair had spent several hours alone in the Inquisitor’s own rooms, something inside him begins to grow… _uneasy_ …

 

He decides to ask Cassandra about it first, since she essentially seemed to be the closest female friend Ellana had, the two having remained close ever since the forming of the Inquisition. Unfortunately, even though Solas’ enquiry is the epitome of discretion, the Seeker provides him with hardly any information as to what was going on. She does give him a rather telling look though, one which reveals that she didn’t think much of his interest as to who the Ellana was spending time with, no matter how subtle he was about it…

 

Next he goes to Varric, reasoning that if anyone would have his ear to the ground, it would be the dwarf. Being the gossip that he was, Varric relayed the information he’d managed to garner quite willingly. Yet, regrettably, it was still markedly sparse on the actual details of what the Commander and Inquisitor’s relationship consisted of.

 

After making a few more indirect investigations and receiving no further indication as to the truth of the matter, Solas tries to put the issue out of his mind.

 

Unfortunately his mind doesn’t seem able –or willing– to let it go so easily.

 

He finds himself losing concentration at odd moments during his studies; finds himself watching her whenever she happened to be in the vicinity or walking around Skyhold. Most notably, he feels the way his eyes fixate on the surprised smile that darts over her mouth when they return from a mission and the Commander happens to show up with the explanation of relaying a message from Josephine that she needed to see the Inquisitor as soon as possible regarding some possible alliance with a high-powered Orlisian noble.

 

The two walk of them walk away from the group together, towards the steps that lead to the Main Hall, their heads inclined towards each other as they’d talked quietly.

 

Sera’s obnoxiously loud “Aww…” grates like nails on the chalkboard of Solas’ insides.

 

…

 

The restlessness inside him that begins as nothing more than a slight nagging at the back of his mind doesn’t lessen. In fact, each time he sees her looking more and more like her normal self it manages to grow.

 

He observes how she slowly returns to socialising with the rest of the group, catching sight of her practising with Cassandra or sitting with Varric in front of the fire or having a drink with Bull in the tavern. More than that, she starts going to those inane Wicked Grace evenings that Varric holds once a week – and he can’t help but find out that she takes _him_ along as well.

 

When he hears that the Commander managed to lose all his clothes over a bet with Josephine and that Inquisitor _stayed behind_ with him when the others left, he finds himself unable to simply let the matter drop.

 

He goes to find her… except there was no answer in her room. She wasn’t to be found in the war room, the training yard, the tavern or the gardens. With his temper slowly beginning to simmer Solas flags down the nearest servant and asks, rather forcefully, whether he knew where the Inquisitor was.

 

It turns out the Inquisitor had last been seen on the northern battlements. With _him_.

 

Without bothering to thank his source, Solas determinedly makes his way there.

He doesn’t even think of what he’s going to say when he arrives, to either of them and he can’t seem to focus his mind enough to come up with any kind of plan–

 

It’s the sound of her laughter that makes him pull up short. He’s still round the corner from where they evidently were, but he could hear them clear as day; her own soft tones mixing and dancing with a richer, deeper one.

 

Solas doesn’t at all like the uncomfortable pang that suddenly blooms in his chest at the intermingled sound... And yet he cannot help but draw that bit closer to the rampart, listening in unseen as his Inquisitor and the Commander talked.

 

“Well, at least I’ll remember never to bet against Josie again.” Cullen’s voice contained a mixture of both amusement and embarrassment as he gives another self-deprecating chuckle.

 

By contrast Ellana’s was light, playful almost. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you just need more practise..? You know, I can always ask Varric–”

 

“However that sentence is going to finish, the answer is No,” the Commander interrupts firmly. “A very definite No.”

 

Solas can all too easily visualise the smile in Ellana’s reply, even as her tone became softer, more gentle. “A shame. I quite enjoyed watching you lose.”

 

“I do not need help embarrassing myself in front of _you_ ,” is the reply she receives.

 

There’s a pause before Ellana speaks again, her manner now almost hesitant as she prompts: “Only me?”

 

There’s another pause, this time from the Commander’s end. Solas feels his own breath stilling in chest and he _wants_ to walk away – to get away from the situation because it was wrong and shameful and he didn’t – _so dreadfully didn’t_ – want to hear what might be the answer to that question… But his muscles were seized, his mind and body unable to tear themselves away despite the danger of discovery, despite the inherent wrongness.

 

And then Cullen finally speaks – and his voice was a confession if ever there was one. “Only you,” he answers lowly.

 

The world suddenly seemed to turn as still and silent as Solas was. He hears the faint clink of metal, the sound of one – _him_ – moving closer to the other.

 

He doesn’t even realise that he doesn’t want Ellana to speak until it’s too late:

 

“Cullen, I–”

 

Her voice is cut off. Cut off by the indisputable sound of lips being placed upon hers – and then her words have turned into a whimper…

 

Solas hears the shifting of two beings pressing themselves against each other, intertwining themselves around each other. For each moment that the undeniable sound continues, it felt like someone driving a blade further and further between his ribs.

 

His hands clench into fists but the action is a futile, useless pretence. He was frozen to the spot, unable to move even when he hears the kiss end. All he can do is continue his feeble, pathetic eavesdropping.

 

“I’m sorry.” It was Cullen’s voice; his breathing heavier now, slightly uneven. “I know that you – I don’t want you to think that – I just –”

 

His unsure fumbling is broken off by her. “It’s alright,” Solas hears her reply – and no, _no_ , he doesn’t want to hear that. He doesn’t want her to say it’s alright because it wasn’t. _Surely it wasn’t_.

 

But her next statement proves otherwise; for even though it is said with tentativeness, there was still an undeniable truth behind it. “I liked it. I like _you_ , Cullen. It’s just…” Her voice trails away.

 

“Him?” the Commander prompts and Solas feels the impulsive, almost overwhelming urge to fly round the corner and knock him straight off the battlements. How _dare_ the man presume to ask, to even think, about anything that related to his and Ellana’s relationship.

 

But then he is speaking again and Solas cannot help but listen:

 

“Look, I know that he hurt you greatly. And I know that you… still have feelings for him–”

 

She makes a noise as if to cut him off but he overrides it.

 

“No, I – I can understand,” the Commander says with a calm intensity. “It’s just that…” He trails off before inhaling a deep, determined breath. “It’s just that you deserve so much better than him, Ellana. You deserve so much better than the way he treated you.”

 

“It’s not–” she goes to speak again but once more, he interrupts her.

 

“I know that you say he has his reasons, but…” Another deep breath is taken and then comes the sound again of shifting armour, of Cullen moving closer to the Inquisitor as he imparts his final statement. “But if you were _mine_ , Ellana, I would not let anything in this world, or the next, keep me from you.”

 

“Cullen…” The whisper is filled with emotion; disbelief, sadness, regret... But beneath all of them lay something else. Something that sounded so much like… _possibility_.    

 

Nonetheless before Solas can really dwell on it, before he even has time to truly comprehend it, there is the sound of movement once more: the Commander clearing his throat hurriedly, almost awkwardly, before declaring, in a manner that sounded far more like his regular, far less intimate, one: “Anyway, I just… I just wanted to let you know that. That I would always be here… if you need me.” There’s a brief pause and what sounded like the shuffling of feet before the words: “Well, I’d, err, better get back to my office… There are several reports that require my attention.”

 

Solas’ muscles return to life when he hears footsteps suddenly start to head in his direction and he turns hastily towards the stairs – but stops when he hears Ellana’s voice one more time.

 

Of course, it’s not calling for him.

 

“Cullen?”

 

Solas hears the footsteps come to a halt, the shift of plate-metal as the ex-templar turns to look back.

 

“Thank you,” Ellana utters, still softly, still gently sincere. “I… I appreciate your support. I really do.”

 

The chink of metal again –a small bow perhaps?– before Cullen’s solemnly spoken reply of: “My door is always open to you, Inquisitor.”

 

With a muffled charm on his own footsteps, Solas is gone long before the Commander reaches the top of the steps.

 

…


	2. The Mistakes We Make - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Warnings for further mangling of the DA:I timeline and mature content towards the end. Also Solas mopery.

…

 

He tries to put it out of his mind. He knows that he broke off the relationship for the right reasons; that it wasn’t wise– wasn’t possible for them to get back together...

 

But the thought of her with someone else –with _him_ – just eats away at his soul.

 

And as he sits alone in his study, he sees them before his eyes. He observes firsthand the scene that he only heard from his hiding place. And each time it plays out before him, the kiss lengthens, the words are spoken with more intensity, more passion…

 

_Until in the end the Commander doesn’t walk away from her at all._

 

Finally he snaps: Late one afternoon when she comes to his study to discuss his latest research findings –which are coming far more slowly these days– he lashes out at her, breaking up her recounting of the small set of ruins she’d stumbled across whilst out in the Hidden Wastes.

 

“Do you love him?”

 

He thinks it’s only surprise at his uncharacteristic outburst that impels her to answer him, a confused frown marring her brow. “Who?”

 

“You know who, Inquisitor.” Solas doesn’t at all like the way his voice sounds, sharp and accusatory and not how he wanted to sound to her at all. Despite his aversion though, he seems unable to alter it as he continues. “He’s the Commander of your army. He’s the one you’ve been seen with time and again.”

 

The confusion evaporates from her countenance to be replaced by dawning understanding. “Cullen…” she says with a heavy quietness, before giving a firm shake of her head. When she speaks again, her voice has become harder, more similar to that of anger. “Why are you asking about this? What is it to you Solas?” She meets his gaze head-on, something he now realises that she hasn’t done for quite a while. He’d almost forgotten just how enchanting he always found the shade of her eyes.

 

“I just want to know. I think I have a right to–” he begins but almost immediately she cuts him off, her voice growing almost as fierce as her stare.

 

“No, you don’t,” she interrupts tightly, her voice barely above a growl. “You gave up any rights you had when _you_ decided to break it off.” Yet in spite of the vehement bitterness of her retort, right at the end her voice catches, choked by a pain that was still raw, still unhealed despite everything. It’s an occurrence which sends a sickening blend of both remorse and shame sweeping over him. She was right: what right did he have to demand explanation from her? To interrogate her as to whom she chooses to spend her time with?

 

… _Because he wanted it to be his business_. He wanted her life to be a part of his and there was no point in denying it. His soul was still bound to her even as he had pushed her as far away as possible.

 

To say that the revelation was a shock to him would be a vast understatement; for he’d always believed that logic –that _his_ logic, as ancient and timeless as it was– could overcome anything, could give one the power, the strength to do what they had to no matter what.

 

But it was no longer working. Logic had told him that he needed to end it, that he needed her to be safe and unhurt and focused and away from him… but now he realised that his heart simply couldn’t let go, wouldn’t let go.

 

He moves across the room towards her, drawing closer to her than he dared had in the months gone by. “Ellana…” he murmurs, reaching out to her.

 

For a split second she looks up at him, and for the briefest moment he sees in her eyes the shadow of how she used to look at him when they were together… But in the next instant she has backed away as if burnt, jerking from his grasp with an almost violent motion.

 

“Don’t. Don’t touch me, Solas. I can’t…” Her voice trails away, even as the lines on her face become more frustrated, her pointed jaw clenching.

 

He is helpless to do anything but follow her. “Can’t what?” he presses, the breath stilling inside him as he dares to hope that it may not be too late.

 

But she shakes her head firmly and when she answers her voice is resolute even as she has to take a deep breath before using it. “I can’t… be having this conversation right now. If you have anything else to say about your research tell Cassandra or Leliana. I can’t,” she shakes her head again. “I don’t want to deal with you right now.”

 

He doesn’t want it to end this way. His mind is in turmoil, his irrefutable logic still strong even as it no longer has the mastery over him.

 

“Ellana, please. Don’t go,” he requests– he implores.

 

But she doesn’t look at him, doesn’t turn around as she continues to the door.

 

“Ellana. You didn’t answer my question,” he says almost frantically, a last-ditch attempt to just keep her here with him.

 

She doesn’t look back at him but she does stop, her hand stilling on the handle. Her head turns to the side over her shoulder. The pause before she speaks is heavy with contemplation, but when her answer does come, he knows it’s sincere.

 

“Do I love him?” she repeats quietly. “Do I love the man who’s offered me nothing but honesty and understanding and kindness without asking anything in return? Do I love the man who just seems to make everything so simple, so uncomplicated…” She takes a deep breath. “No. No, I don’t. Not yet… But give me time.”

Solas feels as though she takes a piece of his own heart with her as she leaves.

 

…

 

Sleep begins to elude him more and more as she graces him with her presence less and less. Unlike the time after their break up though, where she had still sought him out, had still graced him with her presence even if it had been stilted and formal, the Inquisitor now takes to avoiding him altogether… but only him. Everyone else still remained very much in her confidence and company.

 

When he does sleep, it’s her he sees. A conjuration of his mind made flesh by The Fade but distant, always so very distant, so that he cannot touch her, so that her skin appears as a spirit’s: intangible to his touch, a mere spectator to his pain and frustration.

 

It’s after a particularly potent one of these tormenting dreams that he decides to take a walk around the grounds, reasoning that the fresh air might provide him with a brief respite from the broiling mire that had become his mind.

 

Instinctively he keeps out of sight of the guards on watch, clinging to the shadows that lingered long and deep against the high walled stone.

 

He doesn’t find it as surprising as he should when he winds up standing outside the closed door of Cullen’s office, the light of several candles still flickering beneath the wood despite the late hour, indicating that ex-templar was still awake, no doubt working late as everyone knew he was prone to do.

 

Solas finds himself wondering just what it was that Ellana saw in the Commander. For during the weeks of Solas’ own exile from her presence, he knows that her relationship with him had carried on. That it had continued to grow even as her one with Solas himself had continued to wither.

 

On more than one occasion he had thought of seeking the Commander out. In his angrier, more vengeful moments he had felt as though he would be within his rights to take his rage out on the man, as payback for stealing the one thing Solas treasured…

 

Yet he knows in his heart that it’s not the Commander’s fault. Not really. He himself was the one who let her go, who left her alone and confused and in pain.

 

Despite this knowledge, it doesn’t make his hurt any easier to bear.

 

_Perhaps it shouldn’t be_ , a dark voice inside him insidiously whispers. A voice that arose from the dark spectre of his past, and which never allowed him to forget just who he had been. _Nor what he’d done._

 

A deep, silent sigh leaves his lips to linger on the chilled, night air…

 

He’s on his way back to his own rooms, has already turned from the darkened entryway of the office when his eyes land on _her_.

 

Her form; slender and tantalizing and oh so familiar, making its way across the opposite battlement to where he was standing.

 

Her stride was purposeful, even as she seemed not to want to draw attention to herself from the guards stationed on duty near her, keeping as she did to the lower, smaller walkways.

 

When she turns, Solas knows exactly what her destination is. It’s the very same one that he himself had sought out…

 

A string of emotions seem to bombard him all at once: exhilaration at seeing her after what felt like so long; apprehension because he knows that if she spots him outside Cullen’s office, she will think the worst of his intentions for being there; consternation at the very fact that she is seeking the Commander out at all at so late an hour.

 

And yet, even as these thoughts assault his senses, a far more potent one overtakes them all, to sit large and angry at the very forefront of his mind:

 

 

Yet even as he recognises it for what it was, even as his ever-present, irrepressible logic identifies it for the unreasonable, excessive, contemptable, _irrational_ sentiment that it is, it cannot stop him from taking that damning step back into the shadows, the very same shadows that wrap themselves so heavily around the old, worn stonework… and which hide so well the sharp burst of magic when Solas cloaks himself with an intricate spell of indiscernibility.

  

The Inquisitor arrives at the Commander’s door without suspecting a thing. He is close enough to smell the sweet aroma of her silken hair but she never wavers, never gives the slightest indication of wariness. Had she been a mage, she may well have picked up on the telltale shift of magical energy, despite Solas’ own honed skills – but as it was, and fortunately for Solas, she wasn’t a mage. She was a hunter, a rogue, gifted with bow and dagger and far more deadly than a warrior of twice her size and strength… Yet she was not gifted enough to detect such a silent observer, least of all within the very heart of the place that was supposed to be the safest in all Thedas.

 

As such there was nothing to stop Solas from watching with uninhibited shame as his former lover takes hold of the door’s worn brass handle, to let herself into the glowing space without even knocking.

 

And maybe if she _had_ knocked, maybe if she had given the merest indication that she wasn’t as comfortable, as _familiar_ , with entering the Commander’s office at so intimate an hour, then such an act may have given Solas the time needed to rein in his folly, to simply walk away as he knows in his soul was the right thing– the _only_ thing to do.

 

As it was, she didn’t. And as it was, he remains too foolish to do anything else but slip inside the room behind her. To hide and to watch…

 

With a grunt of surprise Cullen’s head jerks up from its bowed position over the reports on his desk. Initially his expression is one of irritation, but all traces of that emotion are swiftly erased when he sees just who his unannounced visitor is.

  
“I thought you’d still be in here,” Ellana remarks with gentle chiding, as she glides over to the desk.

 

After a brief pause where amber eyes linger with nothing short of barely disguised adoration on the Inquisitor’s figure, the commander rallies himself enough to lean back in his chair and send her a rueful smile.

 

“There’s always something more,” he says by way of explanation, but Solas’ unseen gaze is far more focused on the way Ellana rounds the desk so as to stand next to the seated man, well within touching distance as she leans her back lightly against the desk’s edge.

 

Both of them hold each other’s gaze, a connection all the more intimate since it remains unmentioned.

 

“I think you work too hard, Commander,” Ellana comments lightly, but nevertheless with an all-too noticeable undercurrent of concern. Oddly enough it is hearing such a tone that affects Solas the most. For his mind recalls all too well when she would use such a tone with him, back when she actually cared what happened to him...

 

But all that was over. All he can do now is watch with burgeoning bitterness as Cullen provides his reply.

 

“I think you do too, Inquisitor.” And then the commander is reaching out and taking hold of Ellana’s hand in his larger one, showing by action his own concern for his leader.

 

Ellana ducks her head with nervous bashfulness – she never had been one for dwelling on herself, nor the weight that had been placed upon her thin shoulders without warning, without consent. But from his hidden position Solas can see that she doesn’t release Cullen’s hand, even though her words, when they come, are self-depreciatingly reprimanding. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about me.”

 

Solas can see the effect that such a statement has on the Commander; the way his gaze softens even as it also darkens. Tightening the grip on Ellana’s slim fingers between his own, he impels her hand out from her lap and towards him, causing her own gaze to dart back to him as he brings those same fingers up to his lips.

 

“I like worrying about you,” the commander proclaims lowly, before laying a soft, devoted kiss to the backs of her fingers.

 

Solas’ gut twists sickeningly at the way that the hitch in Ellana’s breathing is so obvious, so audible, but even more he hates how she is the one to move first; to lean her body over, after only the briefest of hesitations, and then draw their combined hands away so as to press her lips against the scarred, waiting ones of the ex-templar.

 

The kiss begins delicately enough but doesn’t remain that way long, as Cullen rises from his seat to tenderly cup Ellana’s face, the altered position better enabling him to dance his lips and tongue against her own.

 

For her part, Ellana’s hands grasp themselves onto the back of Cullen’s head, her slender fingers weaving their way into the blonde strands of his hair.

 

The fact that neither of them desire the kiss to end is clear and even when they eventually part, both sets of cheeks flushed and lips swollen, it is evident that it’s only the necessity for breath that causes it.

 

Even so, the commander still cannot help but apologise, as evidenced by the words that immediately flow into charged but still hushed air.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says whilst maintaining his close proximity to her. Again that rueful smile pulls at his features. “I just can’t seem to help myself with regard to you. But I know–”

 

Before he can say anything further though, Ellana has placed a finger over his mouth, bringing a halt to his efforts.

 

“Cullen,” she breathes, moving her head to back to his so that their foreheads rested against one another and resolutely holding his gaze. “ _I want you_.”

 

The words are quiet but sure. And their life, their very _truth_ , feels like someone has taken hold of Solas’ own lungs in order to rip them from him.

 

As if through a far off veil of helpless anguish, Solas watches as the commander’s gaze flickers with surprise. All too quickly though, that fades to be replaced by the kind of elated desire that Solas can remember only too easily.

 

And then their lips are meeting again, the ex-templar practically crushing Ellana’s mouth with his fervency; yet she doesn’t appear to mind one bit, as both sets of hands cling to the other's form with mirrored ardour.

 

Nevertheless it’s the commander that breaks the kiss, and Solas can see the way his countenance clouds with something that takes priority over the passion. “Wait – are you sure about this?” he questions. “I don’t want to… to take advantage of you.” The amber gaze is earnestly examining the face in front of him, as if endeavouring to make sure that the previous assertion had indeed been genuine.

 

It’s the next statement that makes Solas close his eyes in despair, made all the more painful by the smile so clearly enriching it.

 

“I am.”

 

There is the sound of another kiss. Not so much teasing as tantalising, a mere playful endorsement to what was wanted, what was imminent.

 

Solas’ gaze reopens to see the adoring smile stretching the commander’s lips, before his arms have reached out to all but snatch the Inquisitor back against him, entrapping her much smaller frame against his own in order to plunder the depths of her mouth–

 

Which probably would have lasted a far longer, had not Ellana’s own surprise at the sheer fervency of the commander’s action caused her to shift her posture just slightly, but in so doing inadvertently send a substantial stack of parchments tumbling to the ground.

 

With a gasp her head jerks to look down at the floor, while Cullen’s own does the same.

 

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry,” Ellana stammers immediately, visibly distressed at what she’d done, but as she goes to extract herself from Cullen’s grasp in order to bend down and rectify the mess, the commander retightens his hold on her, causing her to look back up at him.

 

Without hesitation, a gauntlet-covered arm gives an expansive sweep across the cluttered desk, sending myriads of papers all plummeting heedlessly to the floor to join the first ones.

  

Even as she giggles in shocked heartiness at the gesture, Ellana allows herself to be impelled backwards onto the now clear surface, whilst breathlessly asking the man above, “What about your work?”

 

With predatory intent, Cullen crawls onto the desk after her, covering her figure with his own. “I’d much rather work on you,” is his resolutely intent answer to her question.

 

And sure enough, in the next moment his lips have reattached themselves, effortlessly continuing what had been previously interrupted.

 

It’s at this point that Solas knows he needs to leave. That it was already bad enough that he’d stayed this long, that he’d snuck in at all; that if he left now it could at least still be reasoned that he’d simply needed to understand that there truly was no hope, that he’d irrevocably lost the one thing he should have held onto more dearly than anything else…

 

Yet while he so emphatically understood all this, his body refused to move.

 

For even as he watched the scene in front of him with utmost shame and despair, something else was growing beneath both of them; and he could hardly believe it, could hardly _comprehend_ how it could possibly be happening, but as he observed the way Ellana’s chest rose and fell so heavily under the dull gray linen of her tunic and witnessed the way her fingers clutched and scrabbled so eagerly at the solidness of the armour-covered form atop her own, all Solas could think about was those nights within the small, pokey chamber that he’d had claimed as his bedroom, and the way those same fingers had felt as they clutched onto _his_ body so tightly, so adoringly…      

 

And as Commander Cullen began undoing the glimmering fasteners of Ellana’s tunic, to lay such reverent yet impassioned lips upon each portion of flushed flesh as it was revealed to him, Solas cannot help but imagine –cannot help but _remember_ – just how soft that honey-colored, delicate flesh was. How warm it felt when it was heated with desire and arousal.

 

He tries to resist the way his insides stir. He really does try to retain even the smallest portion of his dignity, even if he was to be the only one to know about it… but all too soon the sight before him becomes too much for even his iron will to resist.

 

So it was that in amongst the sounds of two heated bodies being pressed flush against one another, of breathy moans and whispered declarations of long-held tenderness and smouldering desire, that Solas found himself undoing the laces lurking just under his belt, in order to take hold of the steadily-growing hardness buried beneath his clothes... Take hold and not let go.

 

And as the couple inside the room feast upon each other’s bodies with lustful abandon, utterly heedless to the lurking presence residing in their midst, Solas’ own senses feast upon the sight in front of him. So that as the commander finally thrusts his length inside the waiting, quivering, panting form spread out beneath him, Solas’ fist tightens in unison, a further swell of magic heating his palm so that his shaft was as enwrapped in heat as the commander’s was.

 

And whilst Ellana’s small, soft body is rasped against the hard, solid wood of the desk by the vigour and ardour of Cullen’s thrusts, Solas’ fist rasps itself up and down the length of his manhood, gripping and stimulating the blood-filled organ until he can feel his every nerve ending thrumming with it…

 

So that when the two lovers finally climax in nearly perfect unison, with Ellana’s keening wail entangling itself alongside Cullen’s growling, guttural moan, Solas’ own choked whimper is effortlessly obscured, as heated seed floods the coarse cloth of his trousers.

 

As the two thoroughly sated figures collapse heavily back against the desk, smiles glowing thickly on each set of lips while gazes twinkle contently at one another, Solas extracts his hand from the sticky mess beneath his garment, his own body tingling with the afterglow of orgasm.

 

But in the very next instant, shame has submerged him like a wave upon a stone, striking his chest like a viper’s bite, paralysing and emptying his entire essence of any hint of satiation or repletion.

 

Physically unable to remain for even one second longer, he summons forth a wind to crash the door back on its hinges, thoroughly startling the room’s two occupants and rapidly turning their smiles into exclamations of shocked alarm.

 

But Solas cannot bear to look at either of them as he uses the created escape route to flee from the vicinity as if the Old Gods had come to claim his soul…

 

He doesn’t stop running until he reaches his pokey little room, slamming the door behind before casting the spell of invisibility from his form as though it were a burning cloak.

 

Yet the burning pain in his heart does not lessen, and as he sinks slowly down to sit upon the cold stone with his back pressed so tightly against the door, the tears leave him. Sliding so gravely heavy down from each eye before splashing soundlessly onto the dusty floor below.

 

For a long time he sits, his gaze staring at nothing but the empty wall directly in front of him, until eventually his weary eyes slide closed…

 

In the solitude of the Fade, she is waiting for him.

 

…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Before you say it, I know full well that there is no ‘Invisibility spell’ in any DA game for mages, and I’m afraid I have no excuse for putting it in other than it furthered the plot (!) and also since Solas is so ancient, I figure it’s not beyond the realms of possibility for him to know (or have invented) some spells that are not known to the modern Thedas. Also I know it’s highly unlikely that an ex-templar and a rogue should still have remained so completely oblivious to a presence that was so near but, well, perhaps they were just so caught up in each other their brains didn’t the space to think of anything else! Them’s my rather shoddy justifications anyway! ;D Sincere apologies if you still can’t take it seriously – but I wanted to get this out since I have been a terrible updater and didn’t want to keep the OP waiting any longer for the final part!


	3. Depraved Desires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is kind-of a combination of two (dark) prompts, but i've pretty much only used the first one's scenario as a basis for the second one (which was the main one that i filled). The first one is here: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13890.html?thread=56135490#t56135490
> 
> The second one is here: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13890.html?thread=56315714#t56315714 
> 
> If you don't want to go about looking them up, the gist of them both is essentially: Since the Inquisition is extremely hard up for cash, they can't afford to pay the mercenary Iron Bull for his help. In light of this he proposes to the Inquisitor that he's willing to forgo monetary payment if she agrees to a more... physical form of recompense, i.e sleeping with him. She reluctantly agrees in order to gain his allegiance and his sway with the Qun. What follows is a brief glimpse into this deal and how it affects Ellana.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again i just want to make absolutely sure that everyone knows this ISN'T a nice piece. In line with what was requested in the second prompt i have included some very dark, very disturbing imagery. Therefore, proceed at your own risk!
> 
> I'd also like to make clear that i do not hate or dislike Iron Bull in anyway - in fact, i adore him!!! However for this particular prompt, he is NOT the Iron Bull we all know and love. Just so we're all clear ;)

…

She hears the creak of the bedroom door and closes her eyes even though she is already enshrouded by darkness. She doesn’t sleep these days, not really. She just waits.

Waits for him to come to her…

Which he inevitably does.

The floorboards creak as heavy footsteps make their unerring way over to the bed. She resists the urge to bury herself even further beneath the covers: she knows that there is nothing that will protect her from him.

There’s the briefest swish of clothes being castoff before the mattress beneath her is sagging with an immense weight.

Placing his palms down on either side of her head he climbs over in order to kneel on either side of her thighs, enclosing her small, frail body inside its familiar cage.

Such a familiar cage.

Her body tenses, tautens like a wire about to snap as he brings his nose to the base of her neck. He inhales her scent slowly, deeply, as though the smell of fear and helplessness were something eminently pleasing to him, something to be savoured and treasured. He hums in pleasure, the sound reverberating down the length of spine protruding out from the skin of her back like jagged rocks from sand.

She feels his lips stretch into a smile against her skin.

“Are you ready for me, Inquisitor?” he purrs, as large hands move to draw back the thin blanket covering her form. He expects no answer to the question, which is just as well considering her throat is too constricted to give him one, but ultimately they both know that if she had been willing – _able_ – to speak about this, she would have done so long before now. And not to him.

She had _agreed_ , after all…

And it was expected of a hero to make sacrifices…

With a final swift motion the blanket is discarded completely to the floor, leaving her frail, shrunken figure utterly exposed.

The chilled night air of the room caresses her naked skin. She doesn’t wear night clothes anymore; they would only rip because of him removing them so roughly and she couldn’t afford the attention it brought to get such things mended or replaced.

There is a tiny moment of silence, a testing interlude of expectation. When she remains curled up, frozen like a babe taken from its mother’s womb too soon, he clucks his tongue in disapproval. “Come now, pet,” he admonishes lowly, at the same time as large hands reach out to take hold of the diminutive waist atop her jutting hip bones, “You know how much I like to see you.”

He picks up her body as if it were nothing more than a feather – although in truth, it probably weighed little more than that these days. She makes a sound in the back of her throat, a pitiful thing of helpless discomfort, of unwillingness, but it goes unmentioned, unnoticed, as she is pulled from her feeble effort of safety into the embrace of the monster.

“As a matter of fact,” the room’s other occupant continues as if nothing had happened, “I think we might try something a bit… _different_ this time.”

She cannot stop the way her stomach clenches as her gaze darts anxiously to his. The eye that watches her is bright, the tone ominous with deliberation, the hands moving her rough, indifferent.

Without warning he swings them both round, placing his back against the headboard and proceeding to dump her directly in the centre of his lap. She tenses anew at the feel of his rigid shaft now positioned so conspicuously against the cleft of her ass cheeks.

“Ah, that’s better,” he declares smugly, as he moves to recline back fully against the cushioned bedhead, making himself completely comfortable.

Her face flames with embarrassment. With shame. With impotent hatred. She feels utterly on display, never having been put in such a position by him (or _anyone_ ) before. Despite the sky outside, the light of the stars and the moon through the windows is more than enough to illuminate her figure… and the way his eye lingers so leeringly over every inch of it.

“Now then, shall we see how ready you are?” he rumbles, his tone so much like that of a lover that if she had anything left in her stomach, it may well have been heaved up.

Without anything further, an ashen hand snakes its way out towards her, yet ultimately doing so intentionally slowly, so as to prolong the sickening inevitability of what was to happen.

Her legs are stretched wide –obscenely so– over his bulk, her palms splayed onto his musclebound stomach as the only means she had of keeping herself steady. As his fingers move past her own –ensuring to slide against them in silent, taunting provocation before continuing resolutely towards their destination– her hands twitch, a spasm almost, a fleeting reminder that she could, at least, _try_ to fight this, _try_ to stop him… But the notion retreats almost as soon as it presents itself. For just as his hand flowed towards her with uninhibited, unconcerned purpose, his other hand was locked with the same level of purpose upon her waist, holding almost tight enough to crush the ribs that beached their way through her flesh like the hull of a wrecked and ravaged ship.

They both know she is no longer in any state to fight – if, indeed, she ever had been.

His fingers reach the juncture of her thighs; already open for him because of the position he’d placed her in. There is no hesitation before he has ducked directly inside of her.

A hiss of breath leaves her lips. Every part of his body was so large that even one finger felt like it was beyond her limits.

Naturally she is beyond dry, but such a detail does not falter or hinder him, as it never does. Instead he retracts his hand in order to bring his thumb up to her lips, having it hover impatiently before her, waiting.

In a motion that was as practised as it was repellent, her heavy tongue slithers out in order to wet the proffered appendage.  

No mention is made by either of them as he draws the newly moistened device back down.

He sets about stimulating the ball of nerves above her opening, manipulating the tiny nub in a way that made her body unable to resist. When this had first began she had expected him not to take the time to prepare her thusly, and when he had initially done so, she had rebelled against it; reasoning that it would only be more shameful, more reprehensible if she took any kind of pleasure –forced or otherwise– from such an act. But her initial stubbornness hadn’t been able to stand against him; although he had taken _great_ amusement in breaking her of it. Indeed, once she had travelled past the degradation of it, a logical part of her had reluctantly acknowledged that it was… better that he took the time to do such, even if he did do so for his own perverse enjoyment rather than hers.

It doesn’t take long for her treacherous body to begin sparking with a pulsing, familiar beat. It swells within her nerve-endings, building and intensifying like a rising wave. So much so that she barely worries when his finger slips back inside her, quickly being joined by another to pump their way in and out of her dampening channel, amplifying the irrepressible reaction tenfold. White-hot flames dance under her skin until, finally, they implode.

For a handful of moments, she is transported away from the awfulness of reality as her body soaks in a sensation that, before him, had been as alien to her as… so many other things.

But now she was able to understand –even if only marginally, shadowed and warped as her experience was– just what those other girls in her clan had spoken of in hushed whispers and giggling undertones; just what it was that had been proclaimed by the more pious elders to be a sin and a depravity; just what those flowery descriptions in the few shemlen books that had made their way into the camp had really been describing...

Yes, he had shown her so much…

And she could never, ever forgive him for it.

With woeful alacrity, before the tainted rapture has even begun its decline, she is thrust mercilessly back into the present.

Provided with no more warning than a grunt of air through twisted lips, her body is seized, captured, and then she is being slammed down upon the unbearably hard shaft that has been so restlessly waiting for her.

She cries out in pain but the sound is lost beneath his raucously exultant groan, resonating with animal-like intensity through the cavernous space around them.

Through a haze of building tears, she sees his eye slide closed in bliss. “Oh yeah, this is what it’s about,” he growls, hoisting her up before slamming her back down again, her entire frame no more than a puppet to his inescapable embrace.

She quickly loses count as to how many times she is thrust up and down the stone-like tower piercing her womanhood – her maidenhood before him (oh, how delighted he’d been at discovering _that_ …). Through the fog of agonized anguish she hears him speaking – as he was always wont to do whenever they were alone. Perhaps he sought to remind of just who it was she was with, or perhaps he simply enjoyed the sound of his own voice: like so many things, she tried not to dwell on it.

“You know I really should punish you for not taking me on your latest mission, Inquisitor,” he admonishes, but his tone is not one of real condemnation – although that didn’t mean he wouldn’t follow through with his threat.

She wants to explain to him that her latest mission had only involved ruins which were well known as being all but deserted of life; that there would have been no need for his skills and that it only would have raised eyebrows if she’d insisted on taking him along when there was nothing more than a handful of deepstalkers to fight; and that she’d needed Solas and Dorian’s magical expertise far more than a mercenary thug’s brutishness. Ultimately though her throat is too occupied dragging in enough air that there is no way she had the extra capability to form speech, and when all was done she knew that he already perfectly understood all the reasons; that he was merely using her decision as another means to taunt her, worry her.

As it was he continues talking without waiting for an answer, his voice not even sounding the slightest bit strained despite the force with which he was plowing into her, his hands like a living vice about her skeletal waist.

“You know,” he purrs, switching mannerisms and sounding suddenly contemplative as his eye leisurely wanders over her, “You didn’t look like this when I first took you. You were soft, fleshy… _desirable_.” He lets the last word linger on his tongue, a further goad regarding his effect on her. More and more it seemed he was more aroused by the way she had coped with this… _deal_ of theirs –or, more accurately, _not_ coped with it– than by what that deal actually entailed.

Of course when it had all begun she had wanted to be strong, she had wanted to be able to disregard her emotions and fulfil this cursed arrangement with as much dignity and as little self-loathing as possible. It wasn’t like she’d had a choice, after all: the Inquisition had desperately needed the alliance that he could provide, most notably his own guerrilla-like band of fighters, but also his influence with his own warrior-esque people, his instrumental endorsement. Yet ultimately the Inquisition hadn’t been able to muster up the needed funds, had barely been able to keep what few recruits they’d had back then in armour and weapons, and so when he had offered her the chance to pay using _another means_ she hadn’t been able to turn him down.

She hadn’t been able to bear returning to Haven with the report that she’d failed everyone who’d been looking to her, who’d placing their hopes on her, only to have their faith and trust and hope rewarded with emptiness. She hadn’t been able to bear the thought of how dire their so-called ‘army’ would be if she’d rejected the offer…

So she’d agreed.

She’d agreed, even though he hadn’t masked the clear intentness of his expression, the unconcealed lust of his stare.

She had thought that she would be able to cope, that she would be resilient enough to do _what was needed_ in order to succeed.

But she’d realised all too soon that such thoughts were mere childish fantasies; that the mercenary was not called that merely for nothing and that she had been no less than a blind, arrogant fool. One who had believed she’d known the ways of the world… when in fact she had known nothing at all.

But by that time, the hole had already been dug, and it had become far too deep for her to ever reach the light again. She hadn’t been able to separate one part of her from the other, one _memory_ from the other.

And as he’d taken more and more of her body, the more that same body began to waste away: her mind and heart as disgusted by food and contentment and _comfort_ as she was at herself.

As if party to her very thoughts, he runs his palms over the deep rivulets made by her ribs. He is not gentle. In fact, he presses his flesh down against her, making the breath in her lungs falter even as he slows the frantic pace of his thrusts, doing so in order to relate yet further reflections from his noxious mind.

“Yeah, I remember you back then… But this,” he abruptly presses down even harder on her ribcage, causing her to practically choke, her own hands flying to his as if to pry them away, even though the very notion was ludicrous: her strength never having been any match to his. “This is all for me, isn’t it? All these bones are my doing.” With hers weakly clinging atop them, his calloused palms drag their way up to her breasts; which he then clamps onto, as if about to pry the shallow globes entirely away from her chest.

He shifts his hold only to roughly pinch the tiny, reddened peaks already stiffened and rigid from the chillness of the night air. Despite the fact that her fingernails are now digging into the backs of his hands, indenting little half crescent moons into the stone-colored skin, he doesn’t bat an eye, just continues regaling her with his wickedly gratified reflections. “It doesn’t bother me, you know, the pain you must be in through being like this... In fact–” Catching her by total surprise he abruptly releases her breasts in order to lash his hands around her shoulders, driving her straight down whilst giving the most violent upward thrust of his own hips to send his cock battering through her womb’s entrance, “–having you this way only makes you feel more delicious, more snug around me, like your body doesn’t want to let me go, heh.” White teeth gleam at her like bared daggers through the gloom. “Who needs a succubus when I have you, eh?”

In a state that was as cruel as it was ironic, she barely hears the rest of his oration as he returns to his brutal pummelling of her. All that fills her ears is the sound of her own strangled, disjointed wails as her insides are pounded by the colossal shaft submerging in and out of her, and the blood roaring its way through her eardrums.

It’s only when large fingers delve once more to that traitorous bundle of nerves that the agony becomes less of a scream and more of a sobbing whimper.

Her senses are hurled into overdrive as forcefully as her body is clamped to his, her lower half rammed down as far as it would go as his guttural bellow roars past her ear, wholly swallowing all other sound, including her own.

Through the fevered haze, she feels a scorching warmth progressively emanating out into her belly, the sheer amount seeming to expand it beyond what was possible, what was natural: his seed was always so copious and he never failed to make sure she took _all_ of it inside her... one way or the other.

Her aching core continues being speared by his cock, but at a slower pace now as his grunting breaths gust over her bare shoulder. Her eyes close and she begs for it all to be over. Black oblivion dances at the edges of her conscious but refuses to take her. The rapture that had been so ferociously compelled from her retreats almost as quickly as it had arrived, leaving her body with nothing but the penetrating cold.

Exhausted beyond measure and wholly incapable of doing anything else –of even summoning up the inherent repulsion that was always so close to the surface– she collapses down onto the wall-like chest spread out beneath her, tears that felt as though they were welling up from her very soul dribbling down her cheeks.

Naturally, he takes no notice of any of it; just continues to pump in and out of her as he marks every part of her womb as his own, just as he’s done many times before.

It’s a long time before he finishes. And even longer before he finally extracts the immense column of flesh from her body: even sated and bloodless, he was still large enough to remain buried inside her, as he sometimes chose to do, on those nights when his depraved desires refused to be sated.

No longer held in by its thickset stopper, viscous trickles of his essence ooze out to cling slickly to her inner thighs.

No more than a few seconds later, and with only a satisfied sigh, the exact same as one might give at the end of a particularly good meal, he heedlessly displaces her listless frame away from him so as to slide to the edge of the bed and swing his feet over onto the floor.

There’s the sound of rustling fabric, of trousers being dragged on and leather boots being laced up. She doesn’t look at him –never does if she can help it– but remains where he’s shunted her, cast aside like a wrung out rag.

“Well, it’s been fun, Inquisitor,” he pronounces with an ever-unrepentant tone of careless joviality, rising to stand and causing the incline of the mattress to elevate significantly.

It’s only a very distant part of her that hears the chinking of his metal belt being buckled, the rumbling murmur of his voice. She just wants him to leave. She feels dirty and empty and hollow. As empty and hollow as the tears that continue to bleed from her eyes.

She startles as she suddenly feels his fingertip brushing over her cheek. Her gaze darts up to his, only to see it far closer than she’d assumed.

“Aw now, don’t cry, pet,” he coos. “I’ll come back again soon.”

She is unable to stop the part fear, part _fury_ from assaulting her mind at the blatantly mocking nature of his tone... But the latter emotion was dangerous – for all that it makes him chuckle darkly as he notices it. There is no way for her to fight him, no way for her to make him pay for what he’s done. They both know this even as it is not unheard of for her to forget it; to forget it until he inevitably reminds her, which he always does:

His smile is sinister as it leers above her. “Just remember to keep our little secret, pet… and me and mine will keep helping you win this war.” He flicks his fingers away from her, waggling them over her face as if waving goodbye. “Til next time… _Inquisitor_.”

She doesn’t close her eyes until long after the sound of the door opening and closing has passed.

And even then, she does not sleep. She simply waits…  

…


	4. Warm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing whatsoever to do with the previous chapter. Just another fill for a Kmeme prompt here: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=51501173#t51501173
> 
> The prompt was: "It's freezing in Emprize-du-Lion (or Hissing Wastes at night) and the Inquisitor is silently miserable about it. Good thing Iron Bull is good at reading people. 
> 
> tldr; Inquisitor hates the cold and Bull is a fucking shirtless furnace that comes to her tent to wrap around her. 
> 
> \+ Sex isn't necessary, I'm all for cuddles, silly banters and theories on the incredible Qunari body heat :)
> 
> ++ Would really appreciate non-mage Trevelyan for this one (however if you have a MIGHTY NEED, you can go with Cadash or Lavellan or Adaar, anon)."

* * *

 

 

She’s never really suffered from the cold before.

But then again, she’s never been anywhere as downright, absolutely, undeniably freezing as night-time in the Hissing Wastes either.

Honestly, how could it be so warm and sweaty and dusty during the day and then so dammed insufferably cold at night?! Seriously, how was that even possible?!

It was times like these that she really wished she had some magical aptitude; then she’d be able to summon up a fire or a warming enchantment or something that would keep her from practically turning into an ice cube inside her sleeping bag.

Of course, she could ask Solas for something of that nature… but it was embarrassment that stopped her. The bald elf wasn’t exactly the easiest member of the team to ask a favour from, and more than once she’d caught the dubious looks he would send her way when she made a decision that he didn’t quite agree with. Pernickety little bastard. She was certain that he felt that a human who had no experience of organising anything beyond a Name-Day party was hardly the best candidate for such a monumental mission as what had been set before her.

Naturally, this prejudiced line of reasoning was one that she would have heartily loved to take the elf to task over… had she not been beset by the nagging sentiment that he might well be right.

She shakes her head angrily, as if sheer physical force would drive the doubts away from her mind. No, she wasn’t about to go to Solas and give him even more reason to be sceptical of her; if she appeared not to be able to even look after herself, what type of message would that send to everyone who was counting on her?

It’ll be fine, she determinedly reasons within herself. The next time they have to come out here, she’ll just be sure to pack several extra bear pelts. That should be enough to keep her body temperature above freezing during the twilight hours.

“If I survive long enough to make it back to Skyhold that is,” she adds dismally under her breath.

She scrunches her eyes closed in an effort to coerce her body into falling sleep and forgetting the cold, but sadly all that seems to do is make her more aware of the uncontrolled shivering of her body.

The only thing that momentarily halts it is the unexpected sound of the flaps on her tent being undone.

Her head jerks up from its buried position underneath the blanket and her eyes fix themselves warily on the opening. When the noise continues to be heard –and she recognises that’s it not just some sleep-deprived hallucination brought on by a frozen brain– she quickly grabs the dagger at her bedside.

With silent feet, she slips out of the minutely warmer confines of her bedroll to slip across the darkened interior.

She makes it to the entrance without even the hint of a sound. Tucking her lithe body against the corner, she braces herself to drive the dagger into whatever intruder had decided to come a-calling on her at such an ungodly hour.

The closure is softly pulled up all the way. The tent flap begins to open. Her nimble hand reasserts itself round the wooden handle, her poised form just waiting to pounce and then–

“Bull?!” she hisses in shock as an obscenely large shoulder makes its way through the newly created opening.

“Oh, hey, boss,” the giant man greets with a cheerful, if hushed, tone of voice, as if nothing was amiss with him entering her tent in the dead of night without warning or invitation.

Realising that she still held the knife up, she lowers it quickly to her side. “Bull, what are doing here? This isn’t your tent,” she whispers. “Don’t tell me you’ve already drunk your way through that keg we found in the dwarven ruins – you said you’d save it ‘til we got back to Skyhold!”

The Qunari finishes sliding himself into the tent, his size managing to make the space that much smaller in doing so, and then turns to face her fully. “’Course I haven’t drunk it, boss.”

She quirks a disbelieving eyebrow up at him, causing him to look away from her and uneasily scratch the back of his neck.

“Well, not all of it, anyway,” he amends, somewhat sheepishly.

In any other circumstances, she would be happy to while away the hours talking to the Charger, finding his upbeat way of viewing, well, pretty much everything a pleasant change from her own, often much more anxious, way.

However, since it was the middle of the night and since the only thing that surrounded them was some –all too thin for her liking– canvas, through which it was more than likely that anything they said could be easily be overheard, she hardly deemed it an appropriate time to have a lengthy discussion.

As such, she gets straight to the point, hissing whilst wrapping her arms round midsection, “Bull, I’m freezing, why is it you’ve come into my tent – what’s the matter?”

“Ain’t nothing the matter, boss,” the large qunari assures, even though –to the Inquisitor’s increasing confusion– he continues making is way not just into the tent itself but turning to redo the fastenings on the entrance, thus sealing them both inside.

Once he’s done, he twists back around, only to send her a frown as he sees her still stood hovering by the entrance. “Whatchya doin’?” he asks gruffly. “Get back in the bed.”

She blinks in surprise, not only at his words but at the way they made it sound as if she were the one suddenly acting peculiarly.

Although since the cold seeping its way irrevocably into her bones certainly wasn’t getting any easier to bear, she makes the decision to forestall further investigation in deference to scurrying as quickly as possible back over to her bedroll.

She doesn’t even bother to think about what kind of image she presented as she dives under the –still far too thin– covers, hastily wrapping them round her shivering form even though they were now almost as cold as the air around them.

Only once she’s huddled back inside her meagre collection of blankets does she go back to trying to remonstrate with her uninvited guest.

“Well, if there’s nothing wrong then– what in the Maker’s name are you doing?!”

To her disbelief, The Iron Bull had followed her path, not only making it all the way to her side, but then proceeding to hunch down on the ground – before swiftly pulling back her blankets so as to slide himself actually inside the bedroll with her!

Before she can say anything further, he speaks.

“Now, boss, I don’ want you gettin’ all uneasy or nothin’, and I know you don’ like asking for help, but I can’t stand the thought of you being in here all cold and restless. Don’ think I haven’t noticed the way your expression changes when you see the sun goin’ down or the way press yourself as close to the camp fire as possible at night. Hell, your eyes could set up their own camp with the bags you’re carrying under them and since I’m no mage who can make flames spark outta their fingers or their ass or whatever it is they do, I figure the only thing left for me to do is to just keep you warm myself. So that’s what I’m doin.” From his new position directly beside her, he holds her gaze steadily.

For several moments, all she can do is gape at him in bewilderment. Part of her is touched. Part of her is worried that he’d picked up on the aspects of her behaviour that she hadn’t even given any attention to, let alone thought that someone else would notice.

“I – I don’t know what to say, Bull,” she murmurs. “I mean, I appreciate the sentiment, I really do, but…” She hesitates, not wanting to hurt his feelings but, at the same time, not understanding what he was getting at either. “But I just don’t see how you simply being here will really help me to keep warm.”

She knows that he hasn’t come in here for more… physical activities. The Iron Bull was nothing if not direct (it was another thing she found refreshing about him) and if that was what he’d had in mind, she knows he would’ve propositioned her in a far different sort of way. Instead, he’d just come into her tent and lain down – and whilst his intentions had obviously been nice, she didn’t see how such an action was actually going to help her with her problem. Didn’t it just mean that both of them would be cold together?

He tsks at her as though she’s being deliberately obtuse and then, before she can even hope to say anything further, has promptly set his beefy hands upon her upper arms and then forcibly hoisted her practically on top of his chest.

“Hey! What–” she exclaims, his sudden movement catching her by complete unawares. Yet before she continues she notices something odd about the gray skin now situated beneath her splayed fingers.

It was… warm.

As in, very warm.

“Oh…” she whispers, in sudden understanding, sudden comprehension.

“Yep,” Bull concurs smugly. “That’s first rate qunari insulation right there.”

And suddenly it made sense to her how all this time, even at night, Bull was able to wander around with only the barest of coverings. She’d always kind of assumed that it was because he just liked the appreciative looks that got sent his way by the female (and quite often male) population whenever they encountered anyone. Clearly she had underestimated him.

As if in wonder, her hands –looking so tiny and delicate against the mass of hard skin now stretched out beneath them– trail over his flesh, practically revelling in the way that, with each second that went by the warmth emanating from it seemed to increase.

“Heh. You know, boss, I’m happy to be here an’ all, but if you keep touching me like that I may be havin’ to get you hot in an entirely different sorta way. An’ I don’t think that’d really help with the ol’ not sleeping – not for our travelling companions, at any rate.” He sends her a lascivious grin, which only causes her to let out a giggling laugh. It was the first remotely happy sound that had come from her mouth since they’d set foot in the Hissing Wastes.

Without thinking about it, she reaches up to lay a fleeting kiss to his scarred lips. Leaning back, she cups his cheek with tender fondness as she speaks with utmost sincerity. “Thank you, Bull. I really appreciate this.”

She then proceeds to squirm right up next to him, until her entire form is pressed as close as possible, hearing his voice happily rumble down to her as she does so.

“No problem, boss.”

Large, bulky arms wrap themselves around her back, adding that final, perfect touch so that she was fully ensconced in blissful heat.

Just before she drifts off to sleep, she briefly wonders how she’s going to explain Bull emerging from her tent come morning.

But then she decided that, actually, she really didn’t care…


End file.
